The Vanishing Sculptor (13 page)

“You said the first spot of shadow only covered a space the size of my palm, right?”

“Right.”

“Then quit worrying. I’m more concerned with whether the board has to be lined up with certain gravitational pulls.” He waved a hand in the air. “Polar influence and all that.”

Beccaroon knew when to pursue further explanation and when it was futile to try to untangle his friend’s brilliant line of reasoning. He shrugged.

Wheels grating on the entrance to Byrdschopen’s driveway caught his attention. “The travelers return.”

“Fetch them, Bec. I want to meet this new comrade, a tumanhofer artist with airs. He’ll make our quest that much more interesting.”

On his way to the door, Beccaroon threw another comment over his shoulder. “I did tell you, didn’t I, that the wizard and the artist aren’t getting along?”

Verrin Schope laughed. “It takes talent to get along with Fen-worth, and this Bealomondore seems to have an abundance of talent.”

“Fine.” Bec paused in the doorway. “The wizard will pose for the artist, and the painting will be named
Outrage”

Beccaroon stood aside and observed with little pleasure as preparations for dinner were made. With help from their guest, Gladyme served the evening meal in the upstairs sitting room. She didn’t fuss over the inconvenience. Watching the wizard transport trays up the stairs without touching them stole her breath away and, with it, her voice. When she squeaked out a concern that her dishes would be cold when they finally got everything arranged to serve, the old man chuckled and said he’d heat anything that cooled.

Beccaroon tsked, shaking his head. The unnatural things this man could do made his feathers sit uneasily along his back. All thoughts of abandoning the quest and sending Tipper off with this trickster vanished. He’d protected his girl for fifteen years, and he was too much in the habit to turn the privilege back to her father. Would Verrin Schope be wary? That was doubtful.

Even the house dragons accepted the strange man without a hint of disapproval. They flew among the floating trays, chittering happily over the phenomenon. Verrin Schope’s dragon perched in the straggly hair on the wizard’s head.

Beccaroon growled in his throat. No one seemed concerned that their comfortable existence had been mangled beyond recognition.

Verrin Schope and Librettowit had their heads together, discussing the sculptor’s new theory. When they consulted the wizard, he announced that he didn’t approve or disapprove scientific advancement on an empty stomach.

The wizard had balked at carrying tables. “I’m an old man. It’s not good for my back to lift heavy objects.”

Beccaroon ducked, walked under a table, and rose up to balance it on his back. He could not strut and abhorred the undignified waddle necessary to move, but he managed to move two small tables.

They sat down to dinner, and Verrin Schope bowed his head, thanking Wulder for the food and friends and asking that He bless their endeavors to unite the three statues.

This launched the conversation into all that had been explained before, but this time for the benefit of Bealomondore.

Beccaroon pecked at his food and didn’t pay much attention. Irritation spoiled his meal. He felt uncomfortable when they mentioned this Wulder. He resented the presence of three men who should not be admitted to the crucial scheme to save Verrin Schope. He doubted the world was at peril. These scoundrels exaggerated, tended toward affected behavior, and flaunted tricks and chicanery. He was tired of them.

Verrin Schope’s voice abruptly stopped. Beccaroon glanced his way.

Verrin Schope grinned. “I’m fading.”

He disappeared. Beccaroon expected a few minutes to pass before his friend would come through the door from the hall. Instead, that shadow he’d seen in the closet formed on the empty chair, and Verrin Schope reappeared.

“Remarkable,” said Librettowit.

Bealomondore remained silent, his eyes large and his complexion pale.

Fenworth brushed a bug off the table. “You did that quickly.”

“I’ve been practicing,” said Tipper’s father with the humility he had displayed more often since his return.

Beccaroon narrowed his eyes. “Practicing what?”

“I’ve found that once I feel that first tingle that signals I am going to fade, I can hurry the process. The faster I disappear, the quicker I reappear. I hope to develop the process so that I only flicker.” He puckered his lips. “The time between fadings is lengthening. I’m hoping this is a favorable adjustment, as I seem to have no control over it.”

“Yes,” said Fenworth. “Quite so. But why aren’t you in the closet?”

Verrin Schope reached under his seat and pulled out the floorboard. “I’ve got the only piece of the closet that connects to the gateway.”

Fenworth chewed and nodded his head. When he swallowed, he spoke. “Always knew you were an intelligent fellow. Hang around, and we’ll make a first-class wizard out of you. I must say, this disappearing business had me doubting the steadiness of your character.”

“Papa,” said Tipper.

“Yes, dear? You’ve been quiet tonight. Are you troubled?”

“No more than usual.”

“That’s good.”

“Papa, are you coming with us on the quest?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I would,” said Wizard Fenworth emphatically. “Quests are uncomfortable things. Villains pop up. People, things, memories get lost. Hard beds, cold food, grouchy individuals griping about inns, hiccups, and misplaced necessities.”

“That would be you,” said Librettowit. He winked at Tipper. “Horrible traveler.”

Fenworth pointed his fork at his librarian. “You’d rather leave me at home. But if I were at home, you’d stay at home as well.”

“And you’d be complaining about this and that at home. I might as well go with you.”

“Harrumph! I wouldn’t mind missing this quest.” Fenworth scowled, and the emerlindian artist caught the glare full on. “Uncomfortable, long, full of frustration.” He let out a dramatic sigh, and the stiffness of his shoulders fell away as he nodded toward his protégé. “But Verrin Schope here is in a fix, and we must put personal comfort aside.”

Librettowit held his hand before his mouth and spoke in solemn tones. “There is that detail about the world crumbling.”

Fenworth looked at him from under his bushy eyebrows. “I’d forgotten that.” He tapped the table with the handle end of his fork. “It’s starting already. Lost a memory. Next it’ll be something I really value… like my hat.”

15
Slight change of Plans

“You can just go sleep somewhere else,” Tipper whispered.

Zabeth flew to the windowsill, but Junkit stayed. Cloud cover hid the moon and stars, but Zabeth’s green scales caught the glimmer from Tipper’s branch of candles. Junkit’s blue wings looked almost purple in the dim light. Tipper frowned at his expression.

“Don’t look hurt. Last night you ‘talked’ to me. This morning not one single impression. You spent the whole day ingratiating yourselves to the wizard.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and squeezed as if the pressure would lessen the hurt she felt. “I’ve never seen such smarmy behavior in all my life.”

She raised her chin and glared at Junkit.
“Now
you come looking for a place to roost. You can roost wherever you used to before you decided to be more than house dragons. You can roost in the barn with Trisoda and Helen.”

Heedless of Junkit’s precarious perch on her blankets, Tipper blew out the candles, burrowed under her covers, and pulled them up to her chin. Junkit turned around several times beside her knees, then flew to join Zabeth at the window.

She heard them “discussing” something and assumed it was her behavior. She had been less than gracious. Both her mother and Beccaroon would have chastised her.

She stretched out on her back and stared into the dark. She should apologize, now that she knew the dragons understood her and had feelings to be hurt. She sighed.

The soft chittering quieted, then Zabeth chirped, a short note that sounded like a summons. Several times the coaxing trill wafted through the night. Wondering what the dragons were up to, Tipper rolled on her side.

On the windowsill, Zabeth and Junkit became quiet, their attention riveted on the sky outside. Tipper heard a flutter of wings first. Then two more dragons landed next to her own. One was her father’s dragon, Grandur. The other was a darker, smaller dragon. All four flew to her bed.

She sat up abruptly, panic energizing her muscles. “What’s this? Are you ganging up on me?” She started to jump out of bed, but her eyes had adjusted to the dim room, and she saw their faces. The quartet of minor dragons looked happy, not threatening.

She crossed her legs under the covers. “What do you want?”

Grandur settled on her calf. The dark dragon perched on her knee. It tilted its head and gazed into her eyes for a moment, then began to sing. The sounds coming from its little mouth were merely notes, but within her head, Tipper heard the words. A lullaby, one her father had sung to her when she was very little.

Astonishment gave way to peace. Tipper leaned back against the pillows. Grandur scampered up to her right shoulder, and Zabeth claimed the left. Junkit sat on her stomach and swayed back and forth in time with the music. The two green dragons, Grandur and Zabeth, lay down, stretching their bodies along a line from the base of her neck to the top of her arms. Warmth flowed down Tipper’s back, through her arms, and up the nape of her neck to soothe even her tight scalp. The singing dragon settled on her leg.

She drifted off to sleep, content to have four minor dragons snuggling her like kittens.

Four passengers—Tipper, Fenworth, Librettowit, and Bealomondore— sat in the crowded coach, one arranged through a rental agency in Temperlain. Four minor dragons slept on laps and shoulders. In the light of day, the new dark dragons scales glimmered a rich shade of purple. At breakfast, her father had said his name was Hue. Verrin Schope sat on the top with the hired coachman.

The carriage rocked, and Fenworth jerked awake as his body hit the side. “Confound it! Doesn’t this heathen land have any decent dragons?”

The minor dragons lifted their heads and scowled at the wizard.

“Tact,” said Librettowit. “Doesn’t have it.”

Bealomondore looked pointedly at the small creatures riding with them. “We have four dragons. Are they not decent?”

Tipper noticed Zabeth stiffen her neck and peer over her shoulder at Bealomondore.

Librettowit stroked Junkit, who perched on his knee. “Yes, they are fine, decent minor dragons.”

“Exactly,” grumped Fenworth. “What we need is riding dragons or even a couple of major dragons.”

“Larger dragons?” Bealomondore scoffed. “Large dragons fly over the Sunset Mountains, but I’ve never heard of anyone riding one.”

Wizard Fenworth rubbed his hands together with glee. “Yes, yes! Where are these Sunset Mountains? Wait until you’ve ridden one, boy. You’ll never want to be trapped in one of these confounded boxes again. Your grand parrot has the right idea. Fly!”

“It’s out of the way for our first stop.”

“But we’ll make better time, more comfortably.” Fenworth leaned back with a contented sigh. “Tap on the roof, my good tumanhofer. We’ll inform the coachman and Verrin Schope of our change of plans.”

Bealomondore looked at Librettowit. “Does he mean you or me?”

“Has to be you,” said Librettowit. “He hasn’t called me a good tumanhofer for a century and more.”

Bealomondore raised his cane and rapped on the ceiling. The coach slowed, and Fenworth grinned. “Ah, I look forward to the luxury of a dragon’s wings beating a slow rhythm, a cool breeze in my face, the smell of clouds, the thrill of looking down from the sky upon the vista of the world—green pastures, rolling hills, ribbons of water, dark forests.” He closed his eyes, his lips frozen in a lopsided grin.

Bealomondore gulped and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Looking down from the sky doesn’t sound like an advantageous viewpoint to me.”

“Nonsense, boy” said the wizard without opening his eyes. “Think of the paintings you can do.”

“I’d rather have my feet on the ground when I paint. Actually, I prefer a wooden stool to sit on.”

Fenworth’s eyes opened. He nodded as he stared at the young tumanhofer. “You see? It’s happening.”

“What?”

“Memory loss.”

“I haven’t lost my memory.”

“But you realize it will happen. You will witness vistas of incredible beauty but be unable to paint them. Why? Loss of memory. You will have forgotten the spectacle. You know it even now.”

He leaned forward and spoke in a more confidential tone. “Quests do that, make you forget your everyday accomplishments. Foil logical thinking. Stymie progressive thought. In short, memory loss.”

Bealomondore scowled and pursed his lips. “And why is this?”

The wizard sat back and resumed his normal volume. “The inconvenient necessity of expending energy to stay alive. One engages in fighting grawligs, beating back bisonbecks, ascending and descending mountains, traversing deserts, and the like. Very tiring. Also very absorbing occupations. Doesn’t leave much time for cogitating.”

Bealomondore rapped the ceiling of the coach again. The man’s face showed nothing, but his knock to draw the attention of someone outside the carriage sounded desperate.

The coachman hollered, “Whoa!” They gradually came to a stop. The carriage dipped to one side as someone climbed down. The door opened, and the sight of her father’s face took Tipper’s breath away. He looked healthier, happier, more eager than the first night she saw him beside her bed.

But it wasn’t his present state of health that overwhelmed her. Of course she was glad for that. The astonishment came from the mere fact that he was here. The wonder of it still gave her goose bumps, stunned her, stopped her breath. She’d done without him for so long.

Her mother should be enjoying his presence as well. But apparently she had, to some extent. A tingle of resentment prickled Tipper’s joy.